Lives Unheroic

 Dedicated to all those souls destined to roam meaningless, but tamed to find purpose.

It was on a rainy late night during a ride that I stopped by a road side shop only to smoke, think over indefinitely definite issues haunting for the last few weeks, and to be spaced out.

Something sprouted, but unclear. Desperately wanted to booze. The day demanded it and I was convinced I deservd one. Being caught in a dilemma whether to go for it or not, I stayed non chalant and confused for hours staring at a no-star sky as if a kid was to choose between two distinct, yet fearful kinds of punishments.

Every puff of smoke I inhaled kept a portion left inside when exhaled, metaphorical of the thoughts going in and out of mind. 

Everything around me started to mark their presence, except that I never noticed things I didn't want to. Nothingness, which span all throughout my life, has eventually begun to bloom into something, literally very big things I can't fathom. But what happened now. a life that has long been following a normalised pace has started showing an immediate urge to speed up. I looked around for finding an object to give meaning to. Though I knew it would be foolish, I wanted to imagine if objects ever had a life. Slowly, I started realising in desperation, people resort to any source of relief nomatter how meaningless they are. Not everything has to make sense. They are never intended to. 

Barring one thing, everything else looked pretty normal and usual than before. That was my perception. Perception of the world around. Were it a living being, it would look into sky like a new born baby.

The grim faces of Road side shop vendors suddenly seemed glaring in the street lights, which were lit only to the ones who never needed it.

The shocking realities slowly transpired like a movie reel unravels, and I stood astonished at the fact that there is an element of greatness and beauty in every single life which we fail to notice. 

Lives unheroic are often lives unacknowledged.

For a while, the drops that were seen drizzling through the light of street lamp seemed like memories showering. Small ones. Larger ones. They didn't come in order. but randomly, disorderly.

Till day, I was sort of shying away from them. Now I know, memories are to be reminisced. They are always meant to be. That's their purpose. Sometimes to hurt us, sometimes to please. It's okay to be hurt and it's great to be in joy.

We can't be selective when it to comes to that. They should be faced heads-on. Some time later, some would disappear. some manage to stay and haunt us, please us. The more intense ones. And the less intense ones fade away. like an old riddle goes oblivious.

Is this the survival of the strongest?